I’ve tried some good stuff from all over the world, with the funny stories that go along. There was Matanuskan Thunderfuck when I spent a season on a salmon boat in Alaska. There was New Zealand Numb & Dumb when I worked picking apples and milking cows in Kiwi land. And there was the killer hashish that I had when I sold curb numbers door to door in Sydney, Australia. All them were good times, yee-tah! But of the three, I have to say that the one which produced the most interesting story about smoking marijuana with friends was New Zealand.
For those who don’t know, the Maori, the collective name for the indigenous people of New Zealand, are a fierce blend of people much like the Native Americans; only with a Polynesian flare, similar to Hawaiians. They closely guard their secrets, even though they have been modernized and melded into society by a very progressive government. They live and work among the white people peacefully and equally, fully integrated, and not on reservations like American Indians do. However, they live on little encampments that preserve their ancient traditions and way of life as it has been for centuries. No white man is allowed onto these “Marai.” Unless, like me, they are invited.
How did I get invited onto a Marai? I don’t know, maybe it was my American accent, or my boyish charm; or maybe they had plans to cook and eat me. Who knows. The thing is, it is such a high honor, if you refuse the invitation, they WILL cook and eat you. So, I went one Sunday evening, hopping on my motorcycle and cruising out of the little town out to the vast New Zealand country side. I looked for the mile marker and scooted down the hidden driveway into the trees. Eventually, I came upon a vast, grassy clearing with little huts surrounding a central building. It was the center of the Marai. The lady who invited me came out to greet me, and we walked back inside her house.
Waiting for me was the most gorgeous creature I had ever seen: her daughter. Imagine the hottest Hawaiian surfer calendar girl, then multiply that by ten. The only problem: Girlfriend was 15 years old. Yikes. But as the evening went on and we gorged ourselves on roast pig, boiled potatoes, and steamed carrots, I could not help but gaze upon her. Just me, the old lady, and the fox. What had I stumbled into? Was this some kind of Shangri la, or a nightmare fantasy? We finished our supper and moved to the couch for some telly, with the daughter sitting between me and mum. I wanted to get with her right away, I must admit. But I was not about to break the law, or be cooked and eaten by the tribe.
Suddenly, the young one whips out a joint. “Would you like to?” she asks casually. I was thinking that I would like to do a lot of things, but I carefully looked to the mother, who surprisingly gave her nod of approval. We lit up and passed it around for a few minutes, and then relaxed further into the cushions to watch the shows. Now, one thing about smoking the killer ganja – I get extremely horny. I mean, I have to do something to relieve my tension or I will explode. Needless to say, there was nothing I could do in this situation. Strangely, though, my urges soon sunk into deeper feelings of something. Actually, nothing. That is, I became completely without thought, the ability to speak, or feel. It was as if I had been put onto a bed of cotton and sealed in a glass jar. I vaguely remember them looking at me and their lips moving, but I had nothing to say. At one point, I mustered the mental capacity to excuse myself and make it to my motorcycle. Fittingly, a thick fog had settled in, which made for the most interesting ride of my life back to my motel.